Day twenty-six had him strolling around in white underwear with “I'm Auditioning for Rocky Horror Picture Show” scrawled on his back in red marker. A few teachers asked him to cover up. All he got was a blanket from the school’s lost and found; all of the oversized clothes and jackets in it had disappeared. The day was miserable and cold, and Nate never felt so embarrassed before. He didn't let it show.

“No, I'm not doing that one,” Sam said tossing the capsule and suggestion over his shoulder. He started rolling the bingo cage again. Rain tapped the windows in the distance. It would freeze over by the day's end.

“Whose one was it?” someone called from the crowd.

Nate glanced down. He turned to pick it up.

“Doesn't matter,” Sam called back. Two capsules exited the cage, and he stopped spinning it.

Nate got to it before Sam had the chance to stop him. On the page read, “Dip foot in the cafeteria frier.”

Sam cleared his throat, tapping his foot, as his fingers unfurled the next suggestion. “Did I say you could break position, Quinn?”

He met Sam's stare for a moment. He wanted to ask why. Nate assumed Sam would be the first one to physically hurt him (again). In fact, in a thousand small ways, he hoped for it. Nate actively hoped that suggestions like these would speed along the end of this agreement, but the fact that Sam was avoiding them annoyed him. It touched him in the same breath. Despite the embarrassment and the fatigue, he felt protected.

A strange collection of thoughts, certainly, but felt all the same.

The sentiment left him a bit breathless, a bit in awe, and he stood straight back up. He wanted to offer thanks. He wanted to say something kind, something that articulated how much Sam was his savior in that moment, but he wasn't allowed to. Nothing was his response.

Nate closed his eyes and winced, waiting for his punishment for the day.

Though anything was better than dipping his foot in the frier.

Day twenty-four had Nate speaking almost entirely in haikus. Made all the worse because he didn't know how to structure haikus for casual conversation. He tried. He tried so hard, but he was regularly monitored by his fellow classmates and one very devoted English teacher. Nate was silent for almost the entire day.

The crocs and thong didn't help that much, either.

Day twenty-three (and, while weekends during school did not count, winter break was still “punishment time”. So that was something to look forward to) had Nate reciting sonnet after sonnet alluding to Sam's intelligence, his bravado, his wits, his charm. He had five minutes to memorize them. “It should be easy,” someone goaded, “since you're so perfect.”

Nate held his breath, almost shocked by the accusation. If you could call it that. He had been called a lot of things – most of the negative ones from Sam, specifically – and “perfect” was one of them. That implied no blemishes, no likes or dislikes. No person could ever be perfect. At no point had he ever said he wanted to be perfect; he never had any fault with being called “perfect”, but now it burned like fire on skin.

His brother was perfect. There was an ease in how Nate considered that. Tyler's eight years at Brookfell Academy were still heralded by a few of the older teachers as a golden age. Tyler Quinn's name was still everywhere, in every corridor; his legacy carried no ire, no backhanded compliments or deep, disappointed sighs. If that wasn't perfection, Nate didn't know what was. Certainly, Nate knew he was charming and suave and confident, absolutely, but never once did he say he was perfect. Not even Sam.

Who sat watching him, disinterested and disgusted (or, hopefully, embarrassed and growing hurt by all this), until he told Nate to stop after an hour of struggling.

His chest sank.

But if this meant getting Sam back, then so be it.

On day twenty-one (spitting distance to winter break), he tugged Sam into a shadowed corner and wiped his face, decorated with stick-on piercing. “I don't want to do this,” he whispered, not even bothering to bring his eyes to meet Sam's. The makeup splattered across his skin was pale and flecked with red, making him look like someone having been run over (or run into). The prosthetics of broken bones and shattered glass took hours to put on, and would only take minutes to take off.

Sam shook off Nate's touch and stepped back, hands on his hips. “Is the great Nate Quinn scared?”

“Sam, I know I hurt you –”

“Not even the half of it.”

His fingers dug into the synthetic tulle skirt. “Then – tell me what I did.”

“Are you backing out, Quinn?” Sam asked avoidantly. “You know what happens if that's the case. If you can't follow through on it, you resign from everything.”

He met Sam's stare. “No, it isn't that –”

“Are you crying?”

“No, I'm angry.”

Sam drew in a breath. “Good. So am I.” He pressed his hand onto Nate's shoulder and gave him a tug. “You look great, darling,” he sneered.

Nate shuddered. He wiped his fingertips against his palms and inhaled.

After half the day, Nate tried to convince himself that no one looked as good as a roadkill male ballerina in a tutu.

He knew what he looked like when he lied.